


Hold my hand and wield me tightly (don't let me go)

by Kiyuomi



Series: Pliroy Week Fics [4]
Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Except one doesn't know they're rivals and the other doesn't know it's love, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, HI IM HERE TO GIVE YOU FEELS, Human Trafficking, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Proposal that's also Kind of a Proposal, Past Character Breakup, Pliroy Week 2017, Slow Burn, Soul Eater AU, Weapon/Meister romances, Yuri's POV, rivals to friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyuomi/pseuds/Kiyuomi
Summary: “Unmatachable. A wavelength too wild, too erratic, to possibly even attempt to safely wield another. Too dangerous to even try. Too risky to even approach.”Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t see why he even bothers coming to the Meister-Weapon opening hall of Death City Academy.Until he meets transfer “next-Death-Weapon” and partnerless Jean-Jacques Leroy.-Five years of being a meister without a weapon, Yuri's never held one that fits so right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS GAY  
> THAT'S IT  
> THAT'S ALL THE WARNING U GET

                Yuri Plisetsky dreams of being a Death Scythe the moment he gets a letter from Death City Academy, which is only the coolest school in the world. He’s totally not excited at getting the letter, but okay, he also is. Yuri’s tenth birthday is the most exciting one he can remember.

                He knows he’s cool, sharp, swift. As a weapon, Yuri’s certain he can strike it out big with or without partner. A weapon can stand just as strong independent as wielded; a meister is useless without their partner.

                Yuri Plisetsky walks the stairs to Death City Academy with the shape of a scythe in mind.

 

                “Yura. Yura, wake up. Yura!”

                Yuri groans, rolling over in the warm coven of blankets he’s wrapped up in. The sun filters through the open blinds, hitting him square in the eyes and he’s too tired to deal with it. Soul wave training with professor Nikiforov was both thrilling and exhausting.

                “Yura, if you don’t get up, I’m calling Mila.” Yuri regrets ever introducing the two. He’s certain that he’d regret it until death, if not for the fact that Otabek, only two years older, can proudly say that he’s the holder of 56 corrupted human souls and, already, one witch soul. Mila did him well in the two years they became partners.

                “I’m up, I’m up,” Yuri sighs, rolling back over to hang over the bunkbed side, glaring at an amused Otabek. The Kazhak weapon only shrugs, pulling at the loose straps of the oil stained floral apron tied around his waist. He’s already dressed in uniform—his choice of a button up with a loose tie and dress pants. It’s not what Yuri would have imagined a weapon, flexible, agile, fast, to have chosen but Otabek always has surprises up his sleeve.

                Wait, today’s August 28th.

                Yuri doesn’t even need to be up.

                “Beka,” Yuri huffs, shaking out his bedhead, “non-pairs don’t have school today, remember? Only the new students and transfers need to assemble for the meeting.”

                “Yes,” Otabek responds, voice far too pleasant for Yuri’s pleasure, “but almost all the partner-less students will be there to scope out incomers. And that,” Yuri rolls his eyes, moving to climb down the ladder before Otabek’s words finish, “is exactly what you should do.”

                There’s no point. Yuri’s been to every freshman orientation for the past five years since arriving to this academy, and not a single time has he matched with a weapon. The first year classes were full of meetings—joining hands, matching wavelengths, throwing their sticks in a bag and trying a new bond with a new classmate. Some stupidly ignorant part of Yuri had allowed it the first two, maybe three, years with a warm smile and welcoming hands. But the flow of the comers slowed.

                Then it stopped entirely, and with it, came the nickname.

                “Un-matchable” Plisetsky, the ice tiger.

                Yuri’s grown worn of this age-old fight.

 

                Mila and Georgi act as dorm mothers for the second year Yuri attends Death City Academy. Georgi was, and remains, a weird man that Yuri can’t wrap his head around. Mila is, well, Mila. But he comes to know them, comes to find their likes and dislikes, their strengths and flaws, and finds something like a home between the two.

                That’s why he introduces them to Otabek. And that’s why when Mila and Otabek proceed to hit it off, he ignores it. When Otabek’s cheeks take on a dusty red look, when Mila’s hands stray a little too long, he ignores it. When they leave, a new contact listed in Otabek’s phone, when they return and Otabek shifts, turns, into a familiar weapon form but a bit thinner, a bit smaller, a handle _perfect_ for Mila’s hands

                Yuri ignores it.

                But he can’t ignore this.

                “Unmatachable. A wavelength too wild, too erratic, to possibly even attempt to safely wield another. Too dangerous to even try. Too risky to even approach.”

                Otabek glares at anyone who even tries to gossip in his presence, but the flow of words can’t be stopped. Even if he were to change now, take that familiar form of that shiny lance, the rumors wouldn’t end. Yuri’s grow to ignore it, let the words filter in and out.

                “He’s disgusting.”

                In, and out.

                “Yuri, you came!” Professor Nikiforov waves merrily his way, followed closely by partner in both fight and love, Professor and Death Scythe Katsuki Yuuri. He smiles at the pair, waving along.

                “It was a bit of a struggle,” Otabek cheekily winks at Yuri, as though he has the right. Yuri glances away, eyes raking over familiar and not-so familiar faces. Plenty of newcomers, but it’s as Otabek said: plenty of old as well. There are quite a few partners littered in as well: Phichit and Guang Hong are together, and Yuuko and Takeshi seem to be entertaining three new freshmen. They’re mostly crammed together in the hall, but there’s a small group of people on the side of the stage where most of the professors stand.

                “Curious?” Yuri frowns at the comment. Professor Katsuki is ever-observant, even with his flighty husband talking animatedly at his side. “Transferring students. You heard about what happened back at Liberty City, right?” He had heard. An attack on account of a wild group of weapons, demanding their rights to live without a meister. “These students are coming from there. And,” Katsuki’s smile is warm, “all the people there are weapons.”

                “Partnerless weapons!” Nikiforov butts in, grinning. He points to a few, “that man there, with the dark skin? Oh, no, not that one, the one with the dark skin beside him. Ah, er,” this is exactly why Yuri doesn’t learn anything in Victor’s class, “the one near him? Diagonal? Or, hm.”

                “It doesn’t matter,” Yuri cuts. Otabek shoots him a look; Yuri shoots him one back. “I’m just here for attendance. I don’t really care.”

                He doesn’t.

 

                “Why do you care so much?”

                “Because! Who can say something so arrogant, so baseless, so _stupid_ like that!” Yuri rants, feet stomping on the tiled school corridor. Otabek raises an eyebrow at Mila, who simply smirks. Oh, Yuri saw that. “Don’t you dare, Mila. It’s dumb, and you know it!”

                “He’s got over fifty human souls without a meister, it’s not a bad record,” Mila says, smirk growing as Yuri glowers her way, “it’s the hand signs, isn’t it?”

                “Fuck, don’t remind me,” Yuri hisses, hands scrabbling to scratch away the nuisance that repeats in his head, “ugh, it’s replaying in my head. Literally who makes their own catchphrase? And what in the world does ‘JJ style’ even mean?”

                “It means that it’s my style.” Yuri freezes, hands still caught in his hair as the voice registers. If he doesn’t look, it doesn’t exist. If he doesn’t look, it doesn’t exist. Otabek whistles, Mila laughs, and it doesn’t matter because if he doesn’t look, it. Does. Not. Exist.

                “I heard of you, ‘ice tiger’ Yuri Plisetsky!” No, no, he’s not dealing with this. Not now. “They say your wavelength hasn’t matched anyone’s, ever! But,” ugh, Yuri doesn’t even have to look to register the unbearable smugness that must be on the other’s face, “It’s my “JJ Style” motto to match with any meister! To me, unmatchable just means a challenge! So, what do you say?”

                “What,” Yuri breathes, because he does not want to end up with detention again, “do you want from me.”

                It’s entirely his mistake to look up. Jean-Jacques smiles downward, hands on his hips. His undercut is dumb, messy and nowhere near as neat as Otabek’s. His shirt is obviously too small, and thin, and Yuri resolutely refuses to let his eyes wander anywhere lower than his jaw. It’s a very clean jawline, and Yuri is not looking. JJ’s shining like someone who hasn’t been thrown into the pit after five years of rejections, like he isn’t in a new school in a new place and partner-less, like no one is aware that he’s matched with every single meister he’s worked with and not a single one stayed; it’s not pity that makes Yuri avert his eyes.

                “I want you to be my meister.”

 

                If the world were to suddenly explode into a million pieces and send Yuri into an excruciatingly painful bodily experience for the rest of eternity, right now he honestly wouldn’t mind.

                JJ’s standing across from him in class.

                “Why,” professor Katsuki’s glancing over and Yuri breathes, forcing his tone low, “are you here?” As far as what Otabek told him, all the transfers were to be placed in the EAT classes, with all the other proficient and _partnered_ students. Regardless of status, weapons and meisters were encouraged to find someone on their same level, and Yuri was positive that not a single one of them was placed in the NOT class.

                But here he is.

                “I’m here for class?” The bastard even sounds like he’s confused, as though everyone in the classroom isn’t sending glances their way. Yuri growls, ready to simply march away before he does end up throwing a punch, but the familiar click-clack of Yuuri’s shoes come close.

                “Yuri, is there a problem?” Formalities aside, Yuuri smiles pleasantly, almost apologetically at Yuri. No matter who pulled the strings, Yuri knows that professor Katsuki has done nothing with the intention of hurting or making fun of him. That, he’s grown to discover, makes being angry at the world so much harder.

                “Why is,” Yuri simply points at the boy across him, “he here? Don’t all the transfers go to the EAT classes? Besides,” his voice is rising and everyone’s looking, staring. Go ahead! It’s not as if he hasn’t lived a circus monkey life for all five years, “can’t he ‘match with everyone’? His _style_? What is he doing here?” Professor Katsuki’s eyebrows raise with every comment, mouth furrowing and eyes searching, probably looking to piece together the perfect answer. Yuri doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t need to, he just needs to go.

                “I asked to join.”

                His feet stay firmly planted on the floor.

                “I asked to be assigned to your classes. I said that I wanted to be your partner. Your,” does Yuri imagine that stutter? “Your weapon.”

                The late bell rings. Class has begun.

                Professor claps his hands together.

                “Alright everyone, together I’d like to welcome both new and old students back to a new school term! I want to go through some self-introductions with everyone, so can old pairs please move to the front of the class for a display?”

                Groans and protests echo in the room as the weapon-meister pairs come forward. But Yuri’s eyes and ears aren’t focused on anything but the back of the student who stands to his front, eyes that only stray to his once the entire class.

 

 _Your weapon_.

Yuri’s never been asked that before.

 

                To this day, Yuri doesn’t understand how Death City Academy retains its perfect reputation. Since arriving, there hasn’t been a day where he’s witnessed some idiot nearly off themselves with mishandling of their weapon, some meister try to create a wavelength attack and fail, and of course, the usual idiocy that comes with playboy partners. Yuri still remembers the fight that had occurred when the Crispino siblings had erupted in an argument with Emil, both demanding he chose one and only one weapon.

                The rules about meisters having more than one weapon if and only if in the EAT class was up by the very next day.

                Still, he had forgotten just how bad the school dealt with not-quite partners.

                “A corrupt politician who goes out bi-nightly to hunt young females, usually between the ages of thirteen to nineteen. They recommend staying away from these streets from eight to four, and to always watch the moon’s face. Wait, the moon has a—oh.” The dialogue breaks as Jean-Jacques takes in the moonlight, eyes widening with every detail of the Death City moon coming into view. The grim, bloody smile of the yellow face laughs their way, and Yuri growls.

                “We just catch and kill this guy and we’re done, okay? Then I’m going home!” JJ’s real lucky that Yuri’s tolerant of the cold, or it’d be him walking in these clunky heels on the cobblestone ground. Between the two, Yuri had been the one told to change into the skimpy dress and ridiculous wide brim hat.

                “Shouldn’t we go through the details again?” Can’t this guy just show up and kill Yuri now? No? “Professor Katsuki said to be extra careful about reviewing the documents, apparently someone got an acid burn a while ago because they didn’t read all the warnings.”

                That person would be Yuri, actually, but hell if he’s going to mention it. It had been four years ago with another weapon who had stubbornly charged into battle, only to be caught by an acid attack. Yuri had foolishly tried to save him, only to get caught in the blast as well as his so-called partner just shifted back into his weapon form.

                “No,” he had gone through the papers himself earlier, “let’s just wait.”

                Jean-Jacques, unsurprisingly, can’t wait in silence.

                “Let’s practice you using me. We can’t exactly fight if you can’t wield me, right?”

                “It’s fine, you can just fight and finish them off by yourself.”

                “But that’s not what partners do! Come on, why be a meister if you don’t want to look cool, holding a weapon?”

                “It’s not cool!” Yuri doesn’t mean to bark it, but his voice echoes in the alley, vibrations bouncing around in the presence of his fury. “Meisters aren’t cool; they’re _useless_.” JJ flinches at his words, mouth opening to cut him off and Yuri’s not having any of it. “What can I do without a weapon? If you abandon me, right here, right now, I wouldn’t be able to do anything! I’d be standing here, bait, and unable to do anything. Meisters can’t do anything on their own!”

                _I can’t do anything on my own_.

                JJ jumps at the words, mouth flapping uselessly with empty words and promises. Yuri doesn’t want to hear it; doesn’t need to confirm what he already knows. Only meisters can wield weapons. Only meisters can ever make that special power that comes from matching soul wavelengths. Only meisters can be a weapon’s partner.

                But Yuri’s no partner.

                He’s no meister.

                A scream echoes.

Fuck.

                “He’s here!” Yuri hisses, kicking off the heels and running to the direction of the scream. He doesn’t know why his body even kicks into action anymore; there’s no point in a meister at the scene of the crime when they can’t do anything. But JJ’s shadow wobbles behind him on the floor, then above, miniscule, and Yuri can see him out of the corner of his eye, papers fluttering free from his fingers as he leaps from patio to patio.

                “!” JJ’s shouting something at him, but Yuri can’t focus on the words. They’re cluttered, flying out as freely as their notes and all that matters are the heavy breathing and sobs that’s happening somewhere, anywhere, calling.

                The roads blur together; the noises fall apart. The cobblestones are sharp, rough, uncomfortable against the skin of his sole but Yuri’s mind is silent. The world is sees is greyed out, only one objective.

                Fight, win, and live another day.

                He turns the corner and “there!” stands a man in a bloody pinstriped suit, hunched over the form of a dead woman. Her body is damaged, limbs unmistakably twisted in all ways and forms and back in year one, Yuri might have flinched away, hid his quivering eyes. Instead, they rake over the scene, the blood soaked lips of the gnawing man, the wide, horrified eyes of the dead woman, her neck broken and head bent behind her spine, red, curly hair spilling over the floor.

                Hair like Mila’s.

                “Yuri!” JJ’s landing at his side, hands moving to grasp his own. “Hurry up, take me!”

                “No.” There’s marks along the side of her head, a chain of rounded, short indentations that drew blood. It trickles over from the bite marks to the spot where her ear might have been, pooling at the back of her hairline and dripping, dropping, drifting through the red river on her head.

                “Why?” Distraught, wild. It’s the sort of reaction Yuri had back then, when Otabek had smiled at him, their hands folded together, rejection pumping in his veins.

                The man finally notices them, his jaw pumping as it works its way through her muscles. His eyes waver, uncertain, crazed, flickering over JJ and then focusing on Yuri, on his long blonde hair, on the dress tight against his body, on the crazy hat that they had pinned on him earlier and the man swallows.

                “Yuri, why?”

                He smiles.

                “Yuri, hurry up, let’s go!” JJ’s hands reaching out, glowing, ready to take form and Yuri’s not doing this, not taking this risk. He knows how it will play out.

                He lunges.

                “Yuri, fucking _move_!”

                Yuri dodges to the right. JJ dodges to the left. They collide.

                The man comes closer.

                JJ’s hand meets his. It’s not glowing. He’s not shifting. “Yuri, hurry the fuck up and let’s go!” He’s pulling.

                JJ’s pulling him away.

                “What,” the man’s feet are erratic, pounding across the street and he’s so close, “the fuck, Leroy? Let me go and finish him!”

                So, so close.

                “I can’t! Yuri, I can’t fight on my own. I’m not that type of weapon!”

                “You what!”

                Close enough to graze.

                Close enough that Yuri’s picking at the pin of the hat, and staring as it flies back, brim meeting and breaking at the mouth of the man.

                “Yuri, please!” He doesn’t want to die.

                The sound of the man’s teeth grinding, his jaws smacking, stings in the alley opening.

                Neither does Yuri.

                “Fine.” It’s pure relief that flitters over JJ’s face at the words, eyes widening in recognition of the simple sign. Then there’s no expression, no face at all but light; sparkling, bright light that stretches and shrinks in Yuri’s hands, the same thing Otabek did all those years ago to fit to Mila. A single line is forming between his fingers, firm, and he grasps it.

                It’s a staff.

                A fucking long one. Something half of Yuri’s height, all gold and shiny, splashes of colorful stones embedded in a spiral along the handle upward. The top is sharp, a circular orb held between a decorated crown, it’s top meeting a long point. It’s probably painful to be stabbed by.

                The man comes in close.

                Time to find out.

                “Go away!” Yuri thrusts the front of the staff forward, it’s point drawing into the skin of the man’s nose and sliding down, slicing a clean cut along his cheek to his ear. But the man’s not moving away, eyes wild and mouth open, salivating, ready to clamp down onto Yuri’s arm.

                He can’t do anything with a weapon this bulky this close.

                Fucking JJ.

                “Go away!”

                Ice, _ice_ , gives Yuri barely a warning flash before suddenly there’s a spike coming straight upward from the head of the staff, cutting straight through the man’s jaw and head. It’s sudden and cold and Yuri’s yelping, jumping back and hands free to catch himself on the stone ground, grazing red lines into his palm as the ice grows, the man’s head splitting and breaking with every movement. But as soon as Yuri’s fingers leave, the ice stops moving.

                The impaled head falls.

                It hits the floor.

                JJ shifts, bright, illuminating, and the then he’s there, standing in front of Yuri with a hand outstretched.

                “Ice.” Yuri whispers. He can get up on his own, without JJ’s help, without his aid. His legs feel a little shaky, sure, and he’s bound to be sore tomorrow. “Ice.”

                JJ’s smile turns grim.

                “Are you,” hesitation, then a bright, fake joy, “We did great, eh, Yuri? See, I told you we could do it together!” JJ’s beaming, some shining plastic emotion. “Come on, it’s dangerous to stay here. I’ll protect you, so let’s go!”

                “You can use ice.”

                “Um, maybe? Hey, it’s our combined efforts!” JJ’s smile is a little crooked as he laughs, uncertain. Yuri’s stare doesn’t waver. The head rolls. The soul hasn’t emerged yet.

                “I’m leaving.”

                “Huh, wait! Yuri,” JJ’s pointing to the decapitated head, frantic. They’re not supposed to move from the setting yet, not without a call to Death and without collecting the soul before it festers again. “Yuri, what’s wrong?”

                The cobblestone is hard until his feet, and cool to the touch. It’s a long walk back to the school dorms, but Yuri thinks he’ll manage.

                “Yuri, Yuri, wait!”

                He will.

 

                There’s something comfortable about a weight in one’s hands. Holding something too light might make someone prone to tossing it around too much, risking breaking it. But something too heavy is also useless, just an unneeded weight.

                The first year had been full of heaviness. Not a single person had fit well for Yuri—too large, too small, rounded, slippery, useless. He had even been given permission to use Yuuri, just once, but even then the Death Scythe was too heavy for him to use.

                The second year had gotten lighter, but still strange. Handles that were hard to grasp, rods that were too long, oddly distributed weights and stances. Yuri had tried, struggled, fitted his grasp on the gym equipment available. He had never found a match, that second year.

                Third year had come, and with it brought Otabek Altin. The other student was older, but newer, than Yuri. He seldom smiled, but his strength was clear. Out of the incoming NOT class, he was the only in Yuri’s practice with Professor Katsuki that could take full weapon form on day one. In Yuri’s hands, he was light. He was wonderful, tight, perfect for Yuri to lunge with. Easy to use, easy to wield, someone that Yuri could easily just be with.

                The third year was when Yuri had learned that weapons could be too light.

                He’s never had a person fit to him since. Never a weapon that would bother with the “unmatchable” Plisetsky, never a weapon dare to find a way into his small hands, grasped by fingers worn by practice and hopeless desperation.

                Then JJ had come in, all promises and words and reputations. His stupid “JJ Style”, his pushiness, his larger than life identity. Then, in Yuri’s hands, a weapon.

                Yuri’s never thought a weapon could fit so well.

                He’s never thought of a staff being warm before.

                In that moment, fingers grasped around the smooth surface, the little indentations of the tiny jewels against his wrinkles and ridges, the little weight of a person trusting him embedded in that hold, the weapon he held wasn’t just a weapon. He was holding, trusting, protecting and being protected by another. In that moment, Yuri could almost pass as a meister.

                He hadn’t wielded a weapon in over a year.

                Yuri hadn’t put that trust in for over a year.

_“Yuri, I can’t fight on my own. I’m not that type of weapon!”_

                Then ice, sharp, forbidding, instinctual. Ice, harsh, powerful, a tertiary force that only a few select weapons were gifted with. Ice, simple, natural, singular.

                There have only been seven solo Death Scythes in history; people who climbed the tiers of human and witch to earn their spot by Death. Of the seven, five were those gifted with the ability of nature: the gifts to spew fire, to call lightning, to shine with the force of the sun. They were seen as the most blessed of all weapons.

                Yuri knew. He had wanted to be a weapon once, too.

                An independent weapon. A strong one, powerful, one that could protect their meister but take their own road. One that didn’t need to be wielded, but wield.

                _“I’m not that type of weapon!”_

                Liar.

 

                Yuri doesn’t bother going to class the next morning. Otabek tempts him with muffins from the nearby bakery, or a day together after class. It’s a nice thought, but he’d much rather stay in bed.

                Mila comes over, and then comes Georgi, and even a knock on the door from Professor Katsuki. He’s the only one Yuri rejects straight away, because he knows that letting that man in will only result in a losing argument. Otabek makes thin rice noodles and curry for dinner.

                They eat in silence.

 

                Not telling Otabek, Yuri comes to realize, is his first mistake. His second is not trudging to school the very next day.

                Of all the people Yuri knows, Phichit remains the only one who refuses to knock.

                “Yuri! Rise and shine, it’s time for lunch!” Phichit’s voice is loud, astounding, and Yuri hisses as his blinds are forcefully pulled open, the afternoon sunlight pouring in over him. Phichit hoists his window up in a one arm move and fuck, it’s cold outside.

                “That’s freezing!” Yuri yelps, pulling his comforter closer. That’s very clearly his third mistake, because Phichit grabs the blankets and yanks, the yellow spotted cover and the floral underprint blankets come crashing down over the edge of the bunkbed and exposing Yuri to both the sun and wind. “Phiii-chit, it’s freezing!”

                “If you don’t like it, get changed and come eat something warm. Guang Hong’s making lunch!” Phichit’s cheerful chirping is generally something most people envy; at this moment, it’s just grating on Yuri. Grunting, Yuri glares over the bedframe at the grinning Thai boy, and swings his legs over the ladder.

                “Yuri, you’re up!” Guang Hong doesn’t cook much for anyone other than Phichit, however, there are always rare exceptions. Yuri and Otabek have received some of his delicious cooking during special events, and as of recently, rumors fly about a new transfer student getting a second bento along with Phichit. At the time, Yuri had simply dismissed it as wild gossip.

                But true to the words, a new student sits at his kitchen table.

                “Who are you?” Phichit was conversing with the dark skinned boy prior to Yuri’s entering the room, so they’re probably friends. Guang Hong’s not protesting or kicking out anyone for flirting with his weapon, so he’s probably fine with it too.

                “Ah, sorry for intruding,” the boy, weapon, meister, speaks, grinning sheepishly, “my name’s Leo. Otabek gave me the key. Erm,” Otabek gave him his key? Yuri freezes, eyes sharpening on the form of the other. He’s, no, yes, he is a weapon. “JJ asked me to talk to you.”

                No.

                “No thanks,” Yuri curtly responds, curling his lip.

                “I’ve made congee and scrambled eggs, so sit down,” Guang Hong only ever commands when it’s his passions on the line. Or rather, he loves consuming food as much as cooking it.

                Yuri’s not escaping this conversation.

                “I heard from Yuuri that you took on a mission with JJ yesterday. You came back without any injury, and he seems fine too, so was it good?” Figures Phichit would get right down to it. Leo’s glancing over with concern, Guang Hong busying himself with scooping the food into bowls.

                “I didn’t have a choice,” Yuri responds, bland. He had the unluckiness of running into Professor and temporary Nurse, Death Scythe Giacometti. “Chris caught me just when leaving class with him following me.”

                “One of his romantic touches then?” Phichit hums, grinning cheerfully to Guang Hong as he sets down the bowls. Everyone’s is in the usual small white bowl, but Yuri’s is a size bigger, piled high with eggs cooked with peppers, onions and small cubed pieces of ham, drizzled with soy sauce and sesame oil.

                “Hardly.” The rice is hot as he spoons it, careful not to spill the porridge over the curved sides of the bowl. Leo blows, careful, on every bite but his eyes don’t stray far from Yuri. “Now he’s got another soul, and that’s it. One step closer for him to be a Death Scythe, and this partnership is done.” It would be rude to mention the ice, even if the topic prickles under his skin, numbing more than the burn in his mouth with every grain of rice.

                “Isn’t this good?” Guang Hong’s speaking up, focused on the heaping eggs in his bowl. “What’s wrong with trying things out with a weapon? If it doesn’t work out, then split, but for now it doesn’t hurt to try, right?” The eggs swim in the congee, flattened by the spoon.

                “That’s right, Yuri! Every meister needs a weapon, and every weapon a meister, right?” Phichit chirps.

                “But I don’t want to work with him? And he doesn’t need to work with me. He’s made it so far independently,” Yuri’s hissing, the prickling under his skin morphing into a stabbing touch.

                Silence descends over the table, accompanied by only the pang of a spoon against the side of the bowl. Yuri knows better than to raise his eyes. The vegetables will get soggy in the soup.

                He looks.

                He regrets.

                Phichit’s smiling at him, as though unaware as he shovels more of Guang Hong’s cooking into his mouth. But the movements are harried, a touch sympathetic; Yuri doesn’t need that sympathy.

                It’s the looks on Guang Hong’s and Leo’s faces that burn.

                “What?” Defensive, destructive; he stabs into a pepper.

                “You don’t think JJ wants to work with you? That he, erm, doesn’t need to work with you?” Leo’s words are slow, heavy, carefully weighed on his tongue. Guang Hong’s words are not.

                “Don’t you think it’s pitiful?”

                Both Yuri and Phichit snap to Guang Hong. The Chinese weapon’s face is pinched, his hands are clenched against the tablecloth, a fold running parallel to his body and taut between his fingers. The spoon sits in his bowl, slowly twirling against the thick texture.

                Pitiful? No.

                “What’s to be pitiful about being strong?” Yuri murmurs. Guang Hong flinches, eyes narrowing but this is his own undoing. “What’s pitiful about being able to fight on your own? It’s not like he’s like you,” a gun, something that can’t be wielded so easily by oneself, “he doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need anyone. He just needs himself!

                “What’s to be pitiful about being strong?”

                “It’s pitiful because he’s alone!” The response reverberates throughout the small room, a sharp accusation. Phichit’s rising, careful, to comfort Guang Hong but the gun has no care, kicking back the chair he sits on to stand, tall, talking downward.

                “What’s good about fighting when you’re on your own? There’s a reason only meisters can wield weapons, Yuri. It’s because when two people’s soul wavelengths match, when their wavelengths overlap and meet, that partners can draw out the best in each other! Don’t you think it’s terrible, to be alone? To just be used and discarded?”

                Guang Hong had wanted to be a meister. He had wanted to be the one to grasp the handle of the gun, to provide the support for another, to be the protector. He knew that he was small, docile, perhaps even useless in combat. However, when the letter came from Death City Academy, he let himself dream for something a bit stronger, a bit brighter, something a bit more.

                Then he had arrived, and was asked to transform.

                “Don’t you think you’re pitiful without a weapon?”

                “I’m not pitiful!” Phichit’s yelping, shaking his head as Yuri rises up to his feet, fist clenched. He may not be able to fight, may not want to fight these few people he can call friends, but that isn’t a comment he can let slide.

                “We should go,” Leo whispers. There’s a pause, a shimmering silence, before Guang Hong simply nods. Phichit gapes, twisting his head between the two weapons by his side, then to Yuri, but the blonde meister’s look remains firm. With a skid of the chair, the two rise from the table as well, bowls still warm with picked-at congee. There’s inevitably another pot of it on the stove, with a pan full of sautéed food for dinner. Guang Hong has a tendency to overcook when he’s worried.

                “Yuri.” Phichit’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a sort of half-moon grin, the kind that he flashes to Professor Katsuki when he’s startled. It’s a sort of questioning thing, that smile.

                “Goodbye,” Yuri responds. Leo tosses him something shiny just as the door closes behind him.

                Otabek’s key.

                The food sits on the table, cooling.

 

                Yuri wakes up before Otabek the next day. He brushes his teeth, rinses his face, showers, pees. He looks in the mirror, looks at the small bags under his eye, looks at the marks along his skin. The little nicks, the little burns, the little memories formed along the way.

                He’s not pitiful.

                Yuri doesn’t need to walk with someone by his side, he’s certain. After the first year, he knew better than to get his hopes up. Death Scythes only come up twice or so a decade, and the one before his was blessed with the coming of not one, two, but five Death Scythes. He’s blessed enough to have two as his teachers.

                Even Otabek hadn’t made him out to be pitiful.

                Yuri heats up the porridge from the night before with the extras Guang Hong had cooked up. Sautéed shrimp, pieces of steak, the leftover scrambled egg. There’s even a small container of tea mixture lodged at the back of the fridge, to be heated for sore throats. Besides it is egg and a packet of pork cutlets that he had meant to make a few days prior. It’s not too late to start now, but in mixing the dough, Yuri realizes that he’s missing the small bowl he usually uses to sift flour.

                The bowls from yesterday sit in the sink, uncleaned. He had meant to get around to it, but then Otabek had returned, Mila in arm, and he had slinked away. Their rambunctious speaking, their simply flirting, the way that Otabek had looked at Mila and the response from their red haired wonder, her smile as her lips brushed his.

_“To just be used and discarded?”_

_“I’m not that type of weapon!”_

                Yuri’s missing the bridge.

 

                JJ is already in class when Yuri walks in, nodding to Professor Katsuki. His uniform has changed—a black letterman jacket over a tee shirt with the words “Death City Academy” on it, and the shorts that Yuri himself wears. Yuri looks and doesn’t speak.

                JJ passes him two notes. He doesn’t unfold them, doesn’t respond, just listens to the lecture. Even when JJ looks backwards again, eyes pleading, they sit at the side of his desk.

                The bell rings and he marches to the front of class, to speak to Professor Katsuki. JJ waits by the door. But the warning bell rings, then the late, and he leaves.

                The notes fall to the floor.

 

                Professor Giacometti is a pain.

                Then again, any friend of Phichit’s is bound to be: the sort of quiet doormat that ends up a terrifying weapon. Yuri should also ask about how exactly does Phichit, who already has a dedicated partner in battle and love, mind, still get requests to be other’s meisters.

                Yuri could learn from his open demeanor.

                He’d really rather not. Except, Phichit doesn’t seem so willing to let him go this time.

                “Good job on completing the mission, Yuri!” Chris greets Yuri at the door. He doesn’t even mention that he’s late by two days for detention. Phichit waves at him merrily from the back couch, happily sipping away at a cup of tea. At the sight, Yuri already knows.

                What a pain.

                “Yuri, come and relax a bit. The NOT class has exams coming soon, right?” Of course Phichit would know the schedule of both EAT and NOT classes in and out.

                “I’ll be fine,” Yuri’s yet to fail a test, even if he has also yet to succeed at one. Professor Katsuki is kind enough to give him a pass without even testing him at this point, but the presence of one new JJ claiming to be his partner may trouble the upcoming exam season.

                “Listen, Yuri, Phichit’s told me there’s some problems you’re having with your new weapon friend,” Phichit, that gossiper, “so, how about you tell me what’s wrong this time? The kid’s supposed to be some prodigious weapon, too.”

                “Prodigious weapon? You mean his ‘JJ style’ bull?” Yuri wouldn’t mention the ice, if only because JJ himself didn’t mention it at the opening ceremony with the rest of his long list of so-called achievements. What good is being a singer at a weapon academy?

                “I’m talking about his soul wavelength,” Chris laughs. “He’s something special, but not as a weapon. Honestly, I think his parents raised him a meister by accident.” Yuri’s confusion must be evident on his face, because Chris just chuckles more as he continues. “It’s Jean-Jacques, isn’t it? He’s got a real erratic soul wavelength as a weapon, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

                “He’s amazing because he’s doing what the meister usually does. Jean-Jacques can control his soul wavelength—to match and to attack.”

                “Wait, what?” It’s not Yuri that sputters the question, but Phichit, tea lowered and eyes widening at the explanation. Professor Giacometti only chuckles some more, wandering over the couch to refill the tea kettle, humming absentmindedly.

                Yuri’s never even heard of this.

                “That’s why Death approved him asking to go to the NOT class. The other transfer kids all went to the EAT classes, but if Jean-Jacques can already control his wavelength like that, then there’s not much for him to do in class other than look for a partner. And, well, he already picked you.” Chris gives an apologetic shrug. The tea kettle clinks onto the glass top, a small pillar of steam rising upward.

                “But why?” It doesn’t make sense. Yuri doesn’t even know how to control one’s soul wavelength, much less make an attack out of it.

                Why didn’t JJ do that in the mission? Or had he, and Yuri just didn’t know it?

                He doesn’t know.

                “Why me? He doesn’t know anything about me. I don’t know anything about him. Why,” someone so talented, so strong, so _lucky_ , “does he want,” the unmatchable, erratic, lonesome, “me?”

                “Because you won’t abandon him.”

                Both Chris and Yuri turn to stare at Phichit’s sudden words. The Thai boy’s shoulders are squared, spine erect, and eyes steady as he retells the words that Leo had spoken earlier. The same words that applied to him, but wrapped away in another’s story.

                That sort of loneliness, Phichit despised.

                “Leo told me. He, Otabek and JJ all went to the same training academy as weapons. That’s how they know each other. Otabek came to Death City, and they went to Liberty City. It’s, it’s good, for friends to move around.

                “Otabek found Mila here, and Leo, JJ, they didn’t. Here, we have all those matchmaking services, right? The ball, the meister-weapon romance polls, all of those, those, romance stories. Liberty doesn’t do that. Liberty’s all weapons, and they. The reason that they were under attack.” Phichit swallows, eyes shifting to the pillar of steam. His hands reach, cup the hot surface, and pour a new cup.

                “Liberty City School of Weapons, is what they call it. All the souls collected there, almost all the souls, are collected without partner. That’s why they were under attack. Because, they, they,” Phichit remembers the words he had said, then the words Guang Hong had said. He remembers the flash of something, pain, pity, _betrayal_ that scrambled over Leo’s face as he spoke, and the red hot flush of guilt swirls in his body. Yuri needs to know.

                All meisters need to know.

                “The students at Liberty were stock. They’re sold to the highest bidder. All those souls collected, all those past partners, they’re, they’re from showcases to the bidders. They go and perform and then whoever does the best gets. They get bought.” Like cattle. Like objects.

                Like weapons.

                “It’s horrible, right? Leo says JJ always got high bids, but his parents never let him get taken. His mom, you know her, Nathalie, the Death Scythe, always hated the system. But even she couldn’t do anything to centuries of tradition. So they just kept doing it. Then, there’s this one girl. This meister who comes up one day, no money, and just goes and says she wants a weapon partner. Everyone’s laughing at her, says she needs to pay up. And then he raises his hand and volunteers.”

                It’s hard to breath, talking like this. Phichit’s heaving like he’s about to vomit, but neither he nor Chris can just approach to rub his back, comfort him, ask him to stop. There’s just a stream of words, a story that doesn’t slow because time doesn’t slow either, and something pressing that he needs to hear.

              “Isabella Yang. Leo says that he never wanted to be someone’s weapon so much as that point. She just, she just came in and took JJ. She called him her partner, her weapon, her friend. But it’s not official, you know? So the bids kept going, for everyone, but his went skyrocketing. Everyone was watching then. How high, how high, could it go? No one had ever seen a weapon being wielded in the exhibitions, but Isabella didn’t care. She fought hard, harder than any weapon, fought like she wasn’t selling herself but reminding others of her worth.

                “The more she resisted, the more people watched. The more she fought, the more people bid. Then she started fighting with every weapon, equal opportunity. A chance to give everyone a partner. So everyone’s went up. Leo says one week, he even got a bid for six hundred thousand. That’s a lot of money. And JJ, he, well.

                At its highest, his bid went up to four point three million.”

                Trouble was brewing. Yuri doesn’t need Phichit to say it to hear the weight that’s dropping in his tone. It’s not pity that’s soaking his words, but something worse, more personal, soaking them through.

                “Money like that, you wouldn’t refuse, right? So the school got angry, because Isabella wouldn’t let them take any bids. She just went to every bidder and well, either ate them or scared them off. More human souls for a Death Scythe. But four million. Four million is too much to refuse.

                “They tried to kill her.”

                Yuri has an inkling of the feeling. He might be wrong.

                “That’s why the attack happened at Liberty City. All those weapons that were bought already, they rebelled. Isabella brought more than a partnership with her—she brought hope to a lot of students who were getting sold for a couple thousand. Students that were being bought to be trophy displays, not partners. She made a lot of people hap—”

                He doesn’t want to just listen.

                “Why are you guilty?”

                Just like that, the mood breaks. Phichit freezes mid-word, cup jittering in hand, warm tea spilling over the side onto the black dress pants he wears. Chris turns, grim, to Yuri. The retelling is stopped, butchered, a tape mid-rewind that’s busted.

                Time doesn’t slow, but people can.

                “You don’t have anything to do with this. Why do you sound so guilty?” It’s a morbid curiosity, probably. Something dangerous prickling along his head, demanding to know. Pretty stories like this are missing a tragic ending.

                There’s a reason JJ came to this school without a partner.

                Phichit stares at him, not hard, just blank, then at Chris. He blinks once, twice, thrice just to clear his head, and speaks in a low tone.

                “Professor, if you were there, and Isabella were there too, would you accept working with her just once? For a mission, an exhibition, anything? Just once?” It’s an odd question, but Yuri’s heard stranger. Chris hums, thinking, mulling over the words, careful as though chewing bullets and swallowing shrapnel.

                “I would.”

                “And if she asked you to be her partner, her weapon, would you agree?” A hum, a longer one, and then Chris laughs, low, throaty, mature beyond their years.

                It’s an odd laugh.

                “I wouldn’t.”

                “Why?” The words are pressing, insistent. Yuri doesn’t get the pressure, the hesitance, the passing that’s happening before him. Phichit turns to him, a desperate look in his eyes, and Yuri nods, shaky. He’s listening.

                “Well, I don’t know how they felt there; I would have probably turned out rather different if I attended Liberty instead of Death! But, well,” the solemn mood washes into the room, a greyed out picture leaking ink into professor’s words, “as a weapon, I want a partner. It, well, I wouldn’t ever say this to a class. Weapons, we want to be useful. We want to help, be helpful, just be there for someone. But, haha,” the words grow sheepish, Chris raising an arm to scratch alongside the back of his head, “I wouldn’t be her partner. Just because I’d want my own.”

                “That’s what Leo said,” the guilt is back, heavy, in Phichit’s words. He’s looking at Chris, but every word is directed Yuri’s way. “I just, I thought Isabella was doing the best thing. I still, just, I do! I think she’s a hero. I think she’s great. But,” he’s looking forward, at nothing, eyes just searching.

                “Guang Hong said he wouldn’t either. He said that being used like that, it kind of hurts. Especially if she said she’d be someone’s partner. And I, I get it. Isn’t it better to help out as many weapons as possible? Isn’t it the best to give everyone a chance at being respected, being loved, being a weapon to a meister?” No, Yuri isn’t certain he’s in the conversation anymore. He’s not even certain Chris is. It’s just Phichit now, searching, grappling, retelling but not knowing.

                “It’s not. By the view of a weapon, what Isabella did wasn’t plain heroic. It was cruel, too. She had come to give everyone hope, a chance of happiness, but there was only one of her. Only one meister for a whole school of weapons. And I, I didn’t understand that. As a meister, I didn’t realize that. I’ve never, I’ve never.

                “I’ve never wanted to belong to someone else.”

                There’s a fine line between meisters and weapons. It’s clear from anyone who sees a pair—generally, the meister is the caretaker, always ensuring the safety of the weapon, while the weapon tends to be more wild. Between the two, however, the one in “charge” always seems to change with the passing light.

                To meisters, the free one is the weapon. They can come, they can go. There are independent weapon fighters, and there are independent meisters too, but weapons tend to be far more powerful. They are strong, attention-grabbing; the weapons meisters glance at are like gods fitted into human bodies, smiling as though they cannot destroy.

                To weapons, the free one is the meister. Sure, weapons can theoretically fight on their own. But that journey is burdensome, lonesome; one that labels them uncontrollable, greedy, horrific. Meisters can wield their soul wavelengths far better than many weapon, tend to match with more weapons, and blend into society. A weapon’s peaceful life is nonexistent. A meister can simply pull back, and never say a word.

                What is more dangerous than a weapon is someone who wields it, and wields it well.

                Yuri shouldn’t ask.

                “So why are you guilty?”

                “Because I would have done that!” The words are harsher, painful, like lashes against the skin. The wounds, however, don’t appear on Yuri but Phichit. “I would have done what she did. I would have blindly called her heroic. I would have, I could have,” the pain of a lash isn’t in the strike, but in the irritation of the skin after the skin. It builds, mounts, until the itch becomes sore, then a shocking jolt worse than the lash strike itself. “I could have hurt him.”

                But he didn’t.

                “You didn’t. Phichit, you never did anything wrong. Don’t take guilt from another’s mistakes,” Chris speaks before Yuri, calming patting the Thai student on the shoulder as he breathes, taking in shaky, shallow breaths.

                “I don’t, I don’t know what I’d do if I hurt Guang Hong. I just, what if I’m hurting him now? What if I’m doing something wrong, but I just don’t know?” Phichit’s rambling, wild, hurt, unfocused. Professor Giacometti just smiles, bringing his arms around the boy, comforting.

                “You are kind, Phichit. Your worries are unneeded—they’re proof of how kind your spirit and actions are. Guang Hong loves you, for your strengths and your faults,” they’re empty buzzwords. The same phrases Yuri’s heard time and time again, from different professors, from different students, from different people. It’s become dull, bland attempts to comfort cut from the same cookie cutter.

                Phichit nods and sniffles, smiling up at Christophe.

                Yuri leaves. Detention starts in five.

 

_“To just be used and discarded?”_

_“I wouldn’t be her partner.”_

_“I’m not that type of weapon!”_

_“Your weapon.”_

 

                Yuri dreams of being a child again.

                His mother smiles down at him, laughing, as she dances in the snow. Her arms flap like a bird, and she caws loudly over the wind’s howling. Yuri laughs along, clapping, but his hands are cold. They’re freezing.

                He’s not wearing any gloves. He wants gloves.

                When Yuri looks back up, mother is gone. Grandpa stands there instead, giving him a pair of clothes. They crumble in his hands, crinkling and drying up into small sponges, and then the wind blows them away with the rest of the snow. Yuri calls out but his voice is silent under nature’s voice. He screams, shrieks, but not a word can be heard.

                Then his hands are warm.

                He’s not wearing gloves, but holding a small golden rod. It’s tiny, but smooth with little ridges, and when he waves it around, it feels so light. It feels so real.

                He turns to show it to grandpa, but grandpa isn’t there either.

                Yuri drops the rod. It falls to the floor, useless, and the snow stops. The wind stills. The setting around him freezes.

                He’s crying, a pathetic child, pointing to the rod on the floor. It’s melting, disappearing, absorbing into the ground and then it’s gone. He threw it away but now he wants it back. He didn’t mean it. He just didn’t want it to disappear too.

                There’s a tap against his shoulder. Yuri turns.

                “Yuri! Get up already, your alarm is ringing! Yura! Yuu-raa!”

                His eyes meet the white ceiling of his room.

 

                Yuri hates fixing mistakes. Not because he doesn’t like having a better outcome, but because he hates to know that he made a mistake to begin with.

                He walks into class, eyes searching, mind reeling, because he’s going to say it. He’s going to own up, admit it, come to accept whatever punishment that’s to be dished out. Professor Katsuki will laugh, his classmates will too, but it’s fine. By the end of the day, the outcome will be better.

                Yuri finds his seat with ease.

                The chair in front is empty.

 

                “He transferred to the EAT class?”

                Otabek nods, wary, at Yuri’s question. In turn, Yuri groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fine, fine, he gets it. It took him too long to come around. So, that’s it then. Over and done with.

                Another year, another rejection. He’s used to it.

                “We’re going to eat lunch together this Friday. Do you want to come?” Otabek’s voice is soft, soothing. After all these years, Yuri can’t imagine a better friend and roommate. He just wishes Otabek could have been his partner, as well.

                “I thought you eat lunch with Mila now,” Yuri points out. Otabek flushes, always flustering with the red haired meister, and chuckles. There’s a reason Yuri eats alone instead of with him this year—he just about got fed up with the inevitable flirting that would occur every meal. There’s only so much PDA one can handle when placed in both Professor Katsuki _and_ Nikiforov’s classes.

                “It’s a reunion. I still want you to come. I think JJ would like to see you too,” he doesn’t care. Yuri’s grown used to this cycle: try, fail, rinse and repeat until the cogs freeze and the pipes shatter, a machine broken down.

                Another year, another rejection. He’s used to it.

                “Fine, but only for you, Beka.”

                Why does this one hurt?

 

                Yuri opens his mailbox to a yellow letter peppered with shiny acrylic stickers and pop up stamps. His name is scrawled in front, a new color per letter in some imitation rainbow ink. He opens the letter at the kitchen island, opening it to confetti and sticker pieces, and the four corner parts of a puzzle.

                The letter itself is the size of a post-it note, sticky and curled up under the decorations.

_“Sorry.”_

                Phichit has nothing to apologize for.

                Sorry, sorry. Sorry for barging in. Sorry for forcing him to speak. Sorry for crying. Sorry for accusing him. Sorry for, sorry for, sorry for what?

                Yuri picks up the envelope. He picks up every piece of confetti and sticker and slips it in, filling the yellow envelope until it’s stuffed to the original state. Then he slides open his own drawer of parchment, stationary, rummaging until he finds the sickening cute letter set Phichit had given him many years ago. The papers are dotted with yellow and pink stars and tiny tiger cubs at the corner of every page. Yuri takes one sheet, writes two words, and slips it into the envelope.

                He doesn’t raise the red peg of the mailbox as he puts it in. Phichit will be here by tonight, probably after a mission with Guang Hong.

                True to his word, Yuri finds the box empty after dinner. The envelope is gone, his letter is gone, all the confetti and sticker flakes. Except one, taped to the side of his mailbox.

                A holographic star.

“Thank you.”

 

                Yuri falls asleep in Victor’s class.

                He wakes up to a warm blanket over his shoulders and Professor Nikiforov blatantly flirting with Professor Katsuki, his hands on the other’s hips, making kissing noises. Yuuri leans away, giggling, but anyone can see how close their bodies remain. If anything, it’s Yuuri who slides his legs closer, closer, locking around Victor’s with ease.

                They kiss in the almost empty classroom. Center stage, right where Victor was standing minutes before to instruct his class about the fundamentals of fighting alone if separated from their partner. Right where they speak of violence, distrust, fear, they kiss.

                The bond of a meister and a weapon turned lovers.

                Or perhaps, the other way around?

                Yuri watches, listens as they speak in low tones, giggle, hug, kiss, love.

                He’s tired.

                Yuri falls back asleep.

 

                Class gets cancelled Wednesday.

                He’s not ready to speak yet, too riled up about Friday to do much. He even kicks out Otabek, texting Mila and demanding her to pick him up from their front door.

                They return to a kitchen full of piroshkies, some cooling on an iron tray, some cool and wrapped up in reds and yellows, flashy pink wrapping paper and ribbons, small tags on each. Yuri doesn’t have the energy to speak to every single person.

                Food, he’s learned, works just as well.

                The red flag of their mailbox does go up this time, packaged goodies crammed inside. There’s three extra helpings for Guang Hong, a reduced fat version for Chris and Yuuri, extra cheesy for Victor, and spicy for Phichit. He makes a tray of slightly burnt for Georgi, and crams Mila’s full of tomatoes. Otabek is a bit homelier; his is simply potatoes and cheese.

                Yuri is full from tasting by the time he folds the last of the dough for himself. After years of eating, tasting, experimenting, sometimes the basics are all he needs.

                His piroshkies come out yellowed, shiny, and plain.

                They’re perfect.

 

                Pre-exam prep starts Thursday.

                Georgi’s panicking just a little as he prepares. After breaking up with Anya, for good, he doesn’t have much time until the exam to find and work with a trial partner. One of the perks of being in NOT class is the lower standards: Yuri’s not expected to wield the next Death Scythe anytime soon.

                Mila and Otabek have to get up much earlier as well. Yuri’s thankful that he’s such a heavy sleeper—if Otabek’s alarm woke him up at five am, there’s no way he’d let them practice peacefully.

                Even Professor Katsuki’s taking a break from his lectures to speak to them individually, work on their weaknesses. Some students can’t fully transform. Others have too weak a wavelength to handle the weight of a weapon. There are a select few who seem perfectly fine, only to be so instable that a jab will result in them falling apart.

                Yuri hasn’t had to take this exam since he fought and _beat_ a weapon in the class three years ago.

                This year though, if tomorrow goes well, things might change.

                A little bit, just a little, Yuri hopes they will.

 

                “Yura. Yura, wake up. Yura!”

                Yuri groans, rolling over in the warm coven of blankets he’s wrapped up in. The sun filters through the open blinds, hitting him square in the eyes and he’s too tired to deal with it. Soul wave training with professor Nikiforov was both thrilling and exhausting. With the tests upcoming, they’ve gotten even harsher.

                “Yuri, don’t make me call Mila.” Honestly, he probably should have kicked them from the room the minute their practice ended up being more physical than necessary. What better than vengeance before the incident even occurs? Besides, he can always kick them out later when the cram time really picks up.

                “Yura, shouldn’t you be preparing for what you’re going to say today?” Otabek gives a cautionary tug on the blanket, Yuri whining as his shoulders are exposed to the cold. Today is Friday, which means exams haven’t started yet, and Yuri has no presentations. What does he need to pre—ah.

                “I’m up, I’m up,” Yuri sighs, flopping over the side of the bed to stare at Otabek. The Kazakh student smiles in return, hands up to adjust the sides of the blanket pooling over the ends of the bunk. With a groan, Yuri swings his legs over, and down, down the ladder he goes. The floor is cold.

                “Will you be okay today? I’ll be there, okay?” Always the worrywart for Yuri. The Russian meister coughs, feet padding along the carpet floors to the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinet. His fingers knock against the toothpaste, and it falls into the sink with a loud thunk.

                “I’ll be fine,” Yuri laughs, fingers pinching at the tube.

                Phichit’s note from Monday, Victor’s blanket from Tuesday, piroshkies from Wednesday, Georgi’s notes at their common table from Thursday, and today, a slightly squished tube of toothpaste. What an odd assortment of charms.

                The great “unmatchable” ice tiger Yuri Plisetsky enjoys his last breakfast with that name.

 

                Morning classes blur into one, even Professor Katsuki’s. Yuri’s tapping the ends of his desks, scribbling nonsense words and forgetting his thoughts. Time can only slow when he needs it to move.

                Lunch arrives. He brings out his, a packaged cheetah print box, and carries it outside. Few students bother with enjoying the outside weather, even as the warm winds begin to die down and the good weather has limited days. The trouble of getting back up to the school gates if a fight breaks out is too much trouble. Once, quite a while ago, Yuri had bear witness to a fight involving two meisters and their weapons. They ended up rolling down the staircase; all the way down.

                Needless to say, they missed a good chunk of afternoon class.

                Yuri plans to too, if this goes well. Victor won’t mind, much.

                “Yuri!” Otabek waves him over at the right of a bench, smiling beside an increasingly familiar face. Leo blinks upward at him, confusion and what, dislike, displeasure, flashing until he settles into a calm smile. Then his hand raises, up until it’s as high as Otabek’s.

                “Yuri!” Leo waves.

                “Am I late?” Yuri questions, shaking his head as Leo makes the move to clear space on the bench. He’s holding a box of food unmistakably from Guang Hong’s hands, packed with rice and mushrooms and small, fried fish pieces.

                “No, you’re fine. We were just waiting for JJ to start, but I guess we shouldn’t need to now that you’re here,” Leo explains. Yuri grumbles, crossing his arms in accusation as Leo laughs, Otabek sniggering along.

                “Does he normally come late? I’m not a patient person,” Yuri huffs, clenching his fingers tighter. Leo doesn’t seem to hate him, at least. Otabek being here was more of a relief than he could have imagined.

                His heart is pounding.

                “Not usually. The EAT exam prep is taking its toll, however,” Otabek’s words are light, reassuring. Yuri’s palms feel sweaty, blood tight, like he’s. He feels almost as though

                “Gossiping about me?”

                It’s a throwback all over again. JJ turns the corner of the bench, grinning, but his smile freezes in place at the sight of Yuri. They’re staring, lock eyes, stance still. Yuri’s thinking, flashing back, to that moment when he had bumped into him, heard the arrogant words, thought it stupid, thought the transfer was dumb, because, because

                “What the hell is JJ Style supposed to be?” Why is he so nervous?

                “What?” No, fuck. JJ’s frowning, taken aback, sending looks at Leo and Otabek and then back to Yuri. He’s not pouting, but his lips are off to the side, pinched. In all their meetings, he’s never looked at Yuri like this before.

                He’s never looked like this to Yuri before.

                Then again, they’ve spent the last weeks not looking at each other at all.

                “No, just, never mind. Look, come here.” Idiot, idiot. Yuri doesn’t have an ounce of understanding of what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. But then there’s the sound of shoes behind him, and when he turns, JJ’s walking, following, just out of the corner of his eye.

                Otabek and Leo wave at him.

                “Where are we going?” Filler conversation. Yuri can do this.

                “Away from school.” No, he really can’t. Yuri didn’t think they were going to be going anywhere to begin with. They were supposed to sit with Otabek and Leo, JJ was supposed to do his stupid sunny smile and they were supposed to be fine.

                Instead, he’s walking further and further from the school gates, and approaching the steps.

                “We’re not, uh, walking all the way down, right? Yuri, I have afternoon classes,” JJ comments, hesitant. The steps behind Yuri sound like they slow, then they stop just as his feet move from the school gates to the first step. Then the second, then the third, and Yuri’s seven steps down before JJ stands at the edge of the stairs.

                He doesn’t know where he’s going. From the top of the school steps, he can see his home, the dormitory with the red roof and broken fifth floor window, huddled with all the other dormitories. There’s the store that he goes grocery shopping, frequent enough they’ve given him extra pork every time he goes. Then the mall, the one Mila always drags him to for end-of-season sales. A square shaped park lays in the west side of Death City, featuring a peaceful man-made pond. Near that park is a road filled with small stalls where homemade items are laid out and sold are extraordinary prices. Besides them is the bakery that Otabek brought him to, all those years ago.

                Far from there, but not far enough, is the street where the ice appeared.

                “Let’s go there.” Yuri points.

                A sharp intake of breath behind him, and then Yuri’s moving down the steps. His pace is faster now, harsher, every step a stomp against the stone steps and the lunch box jiggling in his hand. He holds it tight, the other hand loosely hanging from his side.

                JJ follows along.

                “Yuri, why are you doing this?” It’s hard to pick up the words under the wind this high up. The chill is cold, but the sun won’t be setting anytime soon. Yuri had left his jacket back in the classroom. Here’s hoping he won’t have to pick it up.

                “Who knows?” He doesn’t. Reckless, terrible, confusing. That’s Yuri Plisetsky. JJ makes a murmur of frustration from behind, but the steps don’t slow. There’s a constant six, seven, six, five, six, steps between them as they make the way down, one long line until the end of the road.

                If Yuri can’t make up with JJ by the time they make it down, there’s no hope to this partnership ever working.

                “Yuri, seriously, what are y—”

                “If this is 20 questions, do I ever get a turn?”  Yuri doesn’t mean to cut the other off, but there isn’t time to waste, even if there’s a thousand steps to descend. JJ’s quiet for a moment, just the sounds of their feet padding on stone, before he speaks again.

                “Yuri, that was a question.” Yuri groans as JJ finally, finally, breaks into a chuckle behind him. He chose to walk this staircase with him as company? Still, the Russian meister doesn’t bother stopping the smile spreading across his face. It’s not like JJ can see it.

                “Why a staff?”

                “Eh? Ah, you mean my weapon form?” Obviously. “Well, hmm, that’s hard to say. Weapons don’t really choose what type of form they take, after all. No, that’s not right. Basically, we have a little influence in what we want. Whatever weapon we take the form of, it’s us. But because it’s us, we kind of have a choice in the matter. Does that—does that make sense?” It doesn’t really. Yuri simply shrugs.

                “Why the ice?” He didn’t peg JJ as a cold person.

                “Eh?”

                “The ice? When we fought that guy, you made ice appear.” There’s another cascading few silent steps before JJ makes a low murmuring noise of understanding.

                “That’s not me.”

                “What?”

                “That’s not my own ability. Well, it kind of is? I figured, well, having a staff would be a little inconvenient, right? It’s not the easiest thing to fight with, no sharp blade, no range moves, so my mom started training me to utilize my soul wavelength when attacking.” That covers one question Yuri meant to ask. “I can’t do that on my own. I just make the area around me a little warmer or colder. It’s when someone channels their soul wavelength through me that something happens.” What?

                “Wait, are you saying that I did that?” Yuri? Yuri, the “unmatchable” meister, the one who couldn’t hold down a weapon for more than a couple weeks? The Yuri who lived five years in this school, spending one year of it just wishing to somehow, somehow, be turned into a weapon?

                “Yep! You’re pretty strong, somehow, huh Yuri?”

                “Don’t mock me,” Yuri snaps back, but it’s all bark and no bite and JJ knows it. The other student is smiling smugly; Yuri just knows it. “Fine then; why me?”

                “I said it when we first met, didn’t I? I thought you were a challenge,” did he? It feels so long ago, Yuri can’t recall. “Then we ended up on a mission, and when you held me it just—it just clicked, you know? I can’t see soul wavelengths, never could, but I always had a feeling that you could do something special. The way you moved, the way you talked, I just, I thought it was cool.” There’s no hesitation, not a drop of embarrassment in those words. It’s the first Yuri’s been genuinely complimented by someone not a professor, nor a friend, in two years.

                It feels good.

                “Don’t call people challenges, are you an idiot?” The words earn him a hum and he snickers, already feeling lighter. “How is Death City compared to Liberty?”

                “I like it.”

                That’s it. Yuri pauses on his step and JJ does too, waiting. Yuri thinks of Phichit’s words, of the tale of Isabella, of the bids and JJ’s high price tag. He can ask now, ask and never have to ask again. It’s important for partners to trust each other.

                He opens his mouth to ask, but JJ beats him to it.

                “The people here are nice. The professors teach really well; you know? Liberty’s professors sucked! We’re all weapons too, so there’s like, a no flirting rule. A no flirting rule! We’re supposed to save ourselves for our future meisters or whatever, as though it matters. And then the people here! You guys, oh man, I’ve had four different stores, four different ones! All give me discounts. I’m just buying tomatoes and lettuce or something, and then they’re like ‘oh boy, half off on lettuce!’ You guys are so chill.”

                “Yeah. Yeah, people here are pretty nice,” so that’s it. Alright. If JJ’s not mentioning it, then Yuri won’t either. There’s a crack on the next step and he skips it, slowing to take one wide leap. That’s it.

                That’s all he has to do.

                “Phichit says your mom’s a Death Scythe?”

                “Yuri Plisetsky, are you talking to me again just to get to my mom?” Okay, gross. Yuri turns, just once, to make a face at JJ. In response, JJ barks a laugh. “Yeah, she is. My mom and dad met at school, too. We have an—uh, rather odd meister-weapon meeting system.” That’s one way to put it. “They met there, and well, happily married ever since.”

                “Cool. I’m the only one in my family who isn’t fully human,” JJ hums in awe. Yuri hadn’t ever actually expected the letter to come, even as he waited patiently every day. The chances of a fully human ancestry having a meister child was slim. A weapon child, even slimmer.

                Fate would have it that Yuri would get lucky, just not enough.

                “Do you have any siblings?” JJ asks.

                “No, I’m an only child. Do you have any?”

                “I do,” figures JJ would be proud of having siblings of all things, “I have a little brother and sister. They’re wonderful and talented and they’re going to be the best meister-weapon pair the world has ever seen.” Yuri snorts, drawing an offended gasp. “You dare, Yuri? Just wait, they’re going to be the youngest Death Scythe duo the world has ever seen.”

                “Yeah, yeah. They’re a pair?” Yuri doesn’t exactly doubt them becoming a death scythe, but the youngest duo? That’s a hefty title to uphold.

                “Yep. Born to be together, what I say. They’re really just a perfect pair.” It’s odd to hear something only a few years older than Yuri speak so wistfully.

                “Perfect pair? What’s that supposed to mean?” Yuri’s not sure whether they’re on step three hundred or seven hundred; what he’s sure of is that they’re making their way down. He’s not asking this on the last step.

                “Just that they match. A perfect pair, well, it’s people who know each other. They fight together, think together, want to be together.”

                “That’s unrealistic. How can strangers do that?” Yuri’s expecting the empty words. Victor says that he’d just know, that there’s a sort of spark when someone meets their partner. Five years have come and five will go, and Yuri can’t think of a single spark.

                “They can’t.” That’s, that’s not what Yuri was expecting. The blonde makes a muffled cough, nearly tripping over the next stair. “Woah, Yuri, you, you okay?”

                “Fine. Speak.”

                JJ hesitates a moment more, waiting until Yuri takes another step ahead, before resuming. “You really can’t just know, right? So we just got to try. Just work, and keep working, because there’s nothing else to be done.”

                It’s true. It also hurts a lot less than Yuri would have expected, hearing that.

                Maybe because he’s come to understand how much he’s needed too.

                “That’s a textbook definition, genius. I’m asking you what you want from a meister, not the google checklist.”

                For the first since their starting questions, JJ doesn’t respond. They descend another five, ten, twenty steps in silence as the sun shines overhead. It’s hot, warm for an autumn afternoon. Lunch must be over by now, it feels like, but the smell of grilling meat makes it this high from the ground and Yuri’s reminded that his lunch box is untouched, still swinging in his hands.

                “Someone I can depend on.” Yuri’s almost forgotten the question by the time JJ responds, quiet. He opens his mouth, ready to ask him to elaborate, but JJ takes in a breath like he’s about to speak again, just to be silent. The steps feel heavier again, his heart growing louder, and Yuri’s forgetting what to say.

                “Can you depend on me?”

                “I want to.” The sun is too hot, shining overhead. It’s laughing, amused, and Yuri doesn’t have time for this. He doesn’t want to wait this out.

                “Why? What’s the point? What if I just—what if I just abandon you? What if I just leave?” Again, he doesn’t say, because if he were to leave now it would be a much longer absence than this one.

                “I’ll wait for you to come back,” Yuri’s objecting, fast; JJ’s faster, “I did this time. And here you are, back.”

                “You went to the EAT class.”

                “I wanted you to come with me.” His fingers tighten, balled up and grasping the lunch box, swinging firmly. There’s a reason Yuri’s not in the EAT class. There’s a reason he’s not with Otabek, Mila, Georgi, Phichit, everyone. There’s a reason he’s alone.

                “Did you?”

                “I did, and I do still.” Yuri can’t remember that reason. There is one.

                “What if I fail the tests? What if I go up there, and, and I’m put back in NOT? What if there’s someone else there, waiting for you?” There has to be one.

                “You won’t; you’re the meister I chose. I won’t look at anyone else.”

                “Can you promise that? That you won’t?” If there isn’t one, if there isn’t one

                “I promise.”

                What was the point of Yuri staying in the NOT class? What was the point of him staying alone?

                “Yuri, I promise.” There is a point. He knows that there is one. A long time ago, three years ago, Yuri Plisetsky had made a point to stay in this class. To never retest, to never reach up, to never go beyond where the bars of an _unmatchable_ meister could reach.

                “Can you stay by my side?” Even if another comes. Even if a pretty girl arrives, a pretty guy, a person with a bright smile and a brighter future, someone who can be honest and open and kind without any of the words Yuri uses. Someone without that cage.

                Someone who can unlock another.

                “I will. Yuri, if you’ll let me, I’ll never leave your side.” That’s not what Yuri asked. That’s not what he said.

                It’s what he needs to hear.

                Isn’t it time he say what JJ needs to hear?

                “JJ,” it’s weird, talking like this, asking something like this without looking, but Yuri doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t think he can, right now. “Do you want to be my weapon?”

                Silence. Yuri stops walking, JJ does too. They might be at the halfway point, down this endless steps of stairs. Then there’s a high pitched sound from JJ, and Yuri can’t help it when he whirls around, curious.

                JJ’s smiling at him, grinning with his hands over his open mouth, moving his lips but not a sound comes out. The sun’s not setting, it’s still high up, but there’s an array of colors over JJ’s face. Maybe, maybe that’s not color. JJ’s settling into something, some word, some collection of words, and maybe it’s not the sun that’s shining over JJ, giving him that.

                “Yuri,” maybe it’s JJ that’s shining, “that’s the first that you’ve said my name.”

                “What?” That’s it? Yuri’s gaping, one brow raised, the other narrowed, staring at JJ but the other just keeps smiling, that warm grin reaching cheek to cheek, face flushed and warm, eyes soft and gosh, god, why did it take so long for Yuri to do this?

                “JJ. JJ.” Yuri takes a step up, then another. There’s only six steps between, then five, then four. JJ doesn’t move, just watching, smiling, hands raised at his face.

                “Yuri?” Ice doesn’t match JJ. Flames match JJ, warmth curling around him in his words, overflowing from just his presence. Warmth radiating from his form, bright, cheerful, something to soak in.

                “JJ, can I be your meister?”

                Yuri wants that warmth. He wants to wake to it, to see it, to hold it in his hands. Yuri wants that warmth to soak into him, until they’re one and the same. He wants to walk into it, to embrace the chilling flames, because there’s a burn in there but it’s one that only hurts if he’s afraid.

                He’s not afraid anymore.

                “Yuri. Yuri, Yuri, Yuri,” JJ murmurs, hands crossing over his mouth but somehow, Yuri can see the shaky smile there that he’s trying to hide. It’s nothing close to the one he saw back then, something ages ago, that fake glittering smile while JJ asked for his partnership. This is different.

                This is Yuri asking for something he’s forgotten how to ask for.

                “JJ, do you want me to be your meister?”

                This is Yuri remembering what he’s forgotten.

                “Yes, fuck, Yuri, yes,” five years ago, Yuri would have thought nothing of a trial weapon. More would come, he was certain. Then four years ago, the flow slowed, but didn’t stop. Then three years, the stream came to a halting still, one that would be bearable only with the presence of Otabek. Then another year would pass without a word, and another, and then Yuri would wake up on the welcoming ceremony with the expectations of meeting old friends and no new.

                They’ve made it down maybe half the stairs. Nowhere near the full length.

                Maybe it’s time for Yuri to raise his expectations.

 

                “What is with this city and crazy girl-aiming murderous men?”

                “They’re just crazy.” Yuri’s been living in Death City for five years now—the number of these cases is fairly criminal in itself. At this point, he’d start believing that Death City is a jail cell for all those corrupt humans outside in the world. A pit where nothing good can enter.

                Well, that’s not entirely right.

                “Yuri! Right or left?” JJ points to the end of the street they’re walking on, a split. It’d be best to know where they need to go, to begin with, but Yuri had grown bored of Professor Katsuki’s two-hour long explanation and hefted out of the room.

                “What do you think?” JJ hums, slowing to take in the surroundings. They discovered rather quickly that as hopeless as JJ is at finding a destination (how does one get lost in the school hallways with numbered doors, Yuri doesn’t know) he’s fantastic at finding events. As in, a strangely perfect timing to say something stupid.

                That’s how they met, after all.

                “I’m feeling right on this one. Not certain though, jus—” A scream echoes through the air, coming from where else but the right of the road. Without a look, without even a millisecond of hesitation, Yuri pushes off from the ground and runs.

                He knows without turning that JJ’s right behind him.

                “Yuri, should I turn now? He’s so close, it’ll be fast.”

                “JJ,” Yuri responds, hand outstretched. There’s a familiar huff in reply, a pleasant little sigh, then a familiar weight in his hands. It’s weird, how well one can know an object and not a person. Yuri squeezes the rod of the staff, just to feel the ridges under his palm.

                “Yuri, there!” The man stands in front of them, a young girl crying underneath. Luckily, Yuri can’t spy a drop of blood at the scene—just loose papers and her book bag, torn from her back with its straps broken and the clasp open, books spilling out. It’s a far better look than if it were her body.

                Regardless of the severity, there’s someone here that needs to be punished for his crimes.

                “Hey, back off, freak!” Yuri calls out, but the man doesn’t turn. Fine. He pushes forward, one stomp, two, a leap in the arm and the feeling of being airborne, of swinging his arms up, of that familiar weight just there

                He clobbers the man, the point of the staff digging in and dragging a long, long line down the back.

                The man finally turns his way. And with that, the girl’s running, tripping over small feet, hastily grabbing up the remains of her bag and without turning back, going to safety. The man turns back to her, making an angry shrill noise; she’s already too far from his grasp.

                “Slowpoke,” Yuri grins, taunting. The man twists to him, arms out, ready to snatch whatever prey he can.

                What he receives isn’t a body to crush, but heavy metal to the head. Yuri laughs, the head of the staff blundering into the man, blunt, powerful. It could be stronger.

                Maybe not this time.

                Just in case, he brings down the staff like a hammer two more times, harsh bashing against the bloodying skull. It’s important to be cautious, he’d like to say, but really there’s just something satisfying in this. In holding a weapon, in using a weapon, to take down a corrupted human soul.

                There’s something satisfying in having a weapon by his side.

                “Yuri, stop, don’t get me dirty,” JJ complains from inside the staff. There’s blood dribbling off the pointed crown end of it, just an inch of two deep.

                “Fine,” Yuri groans with a roll of his eyes, drawing JJ back. The man’s body is still, probably dead, but the soul isn’t coming up yet. Just one more bash.

                Ah, yep, there’s the soul. With it comes a torrent of JJ’s whining.

                “Yuri, gross, now there’s bloodstains on the uniform.” True to his word, there’s a red trail along JJ’s shirt that wasn’t there before. It’s not the black tee shirt that he had before, when Yuri had seen him in class. They’ve changed yet again to accommodate for the colder season: longer pants, a button up, a slim fitted blazer or hoodie for warmth. Death City Academy offers a wide arrange of uniforms for their students and all their styling needs.

                It’s no coincidence Yuri and JJ are wearing the same set.

                “I’ll wash it off for you later, JJ,” even now, JJ perks up at his name. It’d be purely annoyingly egotistical if Yuri didn’t appreciate the reactions. “I’ll call Death and report, so eat up.”

                “Yum,” JJ hums, shuffling closer to the body as Yuri moves away. Mirror, mirror. At times like these, he can see why so many female meisters bother with bringing their makeup kits at all times—a pocket mirror for any emergency. As it is in Death City, it’s easy enough to find a blank mirror along an abandoned store.

                The numbers are easy enough: 42-42-564. The waiting game is never long for a busy mission night like this, where far too many students are taking a needed break from studying and exams. Within moments, the glass shifts into a familiar room, and Death nods.

                “Yuri, how are you doing?” Cool, composed, stoic: the reaper of death.

                “I’m reporting in. We’ve defeated and consumed the soul.”

                “Good to hear,” Death can’t do much with that mask, but she nods again. Her voice softens to the old tone that Yuri’s grown used to, back when he hid in the Death Room and took over her kitchen. “Yuri, you’ve done well.”

                “Thank you, Lilia.” Every call is kept short. After all, there are hundreds of other students waiting to report in. Still, every second with Lilia is made important.

                She’s always been that sort of person.

                “Yuri!” Speaking of, JJ’s playing around with the soul in hand. It’s a strange yellowing color, something that Yuri definitely wouldn’t find appealing. “How is Headmistress Death?”

                “Fine. She’s fine. JJ, hurry up and eat that soul.”

                “But I waited for you! It’s our first to capture together, shouldn’t we do it together?” Figures JJ would try to romance even a kill. Yuri sighs, rolling his eyes at the words.

                “I can’t eat souls. And, no,” he sees that look, “I’m not going to be eating anything. Just eat it.” JJ gives him one more pout before opening his mouth wide, wider, and the soul squirms its way into his stomach. It’s at least a little gross, and Yuri grimaces at the sight; JJ’s small satisfied sigh with the meal is alright.

                “Taste fine?” Nothing like piroshkies.

                “Tastes fine!”

                “JJ, are you fine?” JJ grins at him, that same sunny smile he’s come to know every class. Yuri’s still in NOT, and he warned JJ, he’d drag him down with him. If he tests well next week, then they’ll be in EAT together, but for now, he’s content waking up a little later to be somewhat awake for Professor Katsuki’s lecture, to nap through Professor Nikiforov’s classes, and to stay late for Giacometti’s not-detentions.

                Five years of Death City Academy, and it’s only now he’s moving to EAT. He can’t quite remember whatever reason he had to staying stubborn about staying in NOT, but now he has a reason for staying stubborn to move into EAT.

                “I’m fine. Yuri, are you fine?”

                “Yeah,” five years of Death City. Five years of “could be”, of “who knows”, of “unmatchable”. Five years of friends, and partners, and professors and a room to himself, alone. Five years of thought, of coming to terms, of being a person.

                Five years of being a meister without a weapon.

                “Yeah, I’m fine.”

                Yuri smiles, warm, bright, like the sun grinning down above. He can think of the time wasted, of the time struggling, of being awake and not aware. He can think of Otabek and Mila, or Phichit and Guang, of Yuuri and Victor, and he can think of himself. He can think of the upcoming exams, the food he needs to make for dinner, the exercises he needs to finish this week. He can think of weight, of a weapon too heavy, of one too light.

                He doesn’t. He just thinks of now. Of five years gone by, of being unmatchable, of getting a weapon.

                Of getting a partner.

                Yeah, Yuri’s fine.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was supposed to be done two days ago  
> and also less gay and much shorter  
> (I'm glad it's not)
> 
> Edit: Sequel is up!


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